Thus long discoursing, on the bank they stood,
The heavy burthen'd barque at anchor lay,
While the broad topsails, from the yards unfurl'd,
Shook in the wind, and summon'd him away;
Brisk blew the gales, and curl'd the yielding flood,
Nor had he one excuse to urge his stay—
Be chang'd (he said) ye winds that blow so fair;
Why do not tempests harrow up the deep,
And all but the moist south in quiet sleep!
To the bleak shore the parting lovers came,
And while Philander did his sighs renew,
So near the deep they bade their last farewell
That the rough surge, to quench the mutual flame
Burst in and broke the embrace, and o'er Lavinia flew;
While a dark cloud hung lowering o'er the main,
From whence the attendants many an omen drew,
And said Philander would not come again!
Now to their various heights the sails ascend,
And southward from the land their course they bore.
Lavinia mourn'd the lover and the friend,
And stood awhile upon the sandy shore,
'Till interposing seas the hull conceal'd,
And distant sails could only greet her view,
Like a faint cloud that brush'd the watery field,
And swell'd by whistling winds, impetuous, flew:
Then to a neighbouring hill the nymph withdrew,
And the dear object from that height survey'd,
'Till all was lost and mingled with the main,
And night descended, with her gloomy shade,
And kindled in the heavens her starry train.
Safe to the south the ocean-wading keel
In one short month its rapid course achiev'd,
And the cold star, that marks the Arctic pole,
Was in the bosom of the deep receiv'd:
And now the weary barque at anchor rode
Where Oronoko pours his sultry wave,
Moist Surinam, by torrents overflow'd,
And Amazonia vends the fainting slave;—
Philander, there, not fated to return,
Perceiv'd destruction in his bosom burn,
And the warm flood of life too fiercely, glow:
The vertic sun a deadly fever gave,
And the moist soil bestow'd his bones a grave,
Deep in the waste, where oceans overflow,
And Oronoko's streams the forests lave.
Oft' to the winding shore Lavinia came
Where fond Philander bade his last adieu,
(And that steep hill which gave her the last view)
Till seven long years had round their orbits ran,
Yet no Philander came, or none she knew;
Alas (she cry'd) for every nymph but me
Each sea-bleach'd sail some welcome wanderer brings,
And all but I get tidings of their friends;
Sad Mariamne drowns herself in woe
If one poor month Amyntor quits her arms,
And says, "from Ashley's stream he comes too slow,"—
And bodes the heavy storm, and midnight harms:
What would she say, if doom'd to wait, like me,
And mourn long years, and no Philander see!
[333] The text follows the edition of 1795.
THE FAIR SOLITARY[334]
No more these groves a glad remembrance claim
Where grief consumes a half deluded dame,
Whom to these isles a modern Theseus bore,
And basely left, frail virtue to deplore;—
In foreign climes detained from all she loved,
By friends neglected, long by Fortune proved,
While sad and solemn passed the unwelcome day
What charms had life for her, to tempt her stay?